Hard feelings
by Hordepally
Summary: A one shot regarding Jack/Joker's origins at the hands of the Mob and Dr. Crane/Scarecrow.


**A/N: **This is a 1-shot regarding Jack/Joker's origins in No Stranger. Anyone seen Scarecrow in the Arkham Asylum game? WOW.

**Hard feelings  
**

Dr. Crane sat in his car, briefcase and umbrella at the ready. They were late, stupid mob goons had no appreciation for other people's time. They definitely had no appreciation for his research. To them it was sport, watching him administer the compound to someone and hearing the screams and crying. They'd watch and giggle like schoolboys ripping the legs off a grasshopper.

Crane had to admit, it _was_ rather amusing. It didn't matter how big or hardened the person was. They crumbled. They always crumbled. He took a certain amount of pride and satisfaction in that. Pride because it was _his _drug. He had developed it and brought it to fruition. Satisfaction because it proved his theory that fear was the great equalizer. Fear could overcome brawn and size. Fear was a gorgeous thing, the most pure of emotions.

Headlights coming his way snapped him out of his reverie. He realized he was smiling dreamily and scolded himself for it. Unprofessional.

The car pulled up alongside the warehouse and he hurried to meet it, silently cursing the rain that blew past his umbrella and spattered onto the lenses of his glasses. Three men, mob thugs, exited the vehicle, dragging a fourth man along with them. This man, actually little more than a kid, was handcuffed and had been badly beaten.

"Hey doc," one of the guys he knew as Vito said. "Here's your patient. Boy, you didn't waste any time getting down here did you?"

Crane ignored the man. He was too busy looking at the captive. Young, handsome, early twenties probably, not very big. Wouldn't take much toxin.

One of the men unlocked a side door and they entered the warehouse. Crane hated doing his research here but there was no way around it. Not with the mob punishment cases. He couldn't bring them into Arkham in the middle of the night without arousing suspicion.

Oh well. He supposed he should be thankful he even had guinea pigs. This one would be a good one. He'd gotten the idea to test a subject's susceptibility to certain suggestions after reading about case studies involving LSD. That had gotten him thinking, could he coax a subject into doing something they normally wouldn't do under the effects of his compound? Self harming perhaps?

The thought excited him and he picked up the pace a bit, drawing ahead of the men and their captive.

"What's his name?" He asked the goons, nodding at the young man.

"Dunno," Vito answered. "He goes by Jack Napier but it's just an alias. Got caught stealing weapons from Patterson's factory. Won't tell nobody who he really is."

"Jack will do," Crane answered, turning his attention away from them.

The men began taunting Jack and Crane only half-listened, intent on his own plans.

_"Last time you'll ever steal from us again."_

_"Stupid kid....who do you think you are anyway? I mean c'mon, stealing from Don Patterson? Really? What, you suicidal?"_

_"Three knives in his pockets. And a book. That's all. Won't say a word. Freak."_

Throughout it Jack said nothing. His face was completely and utterly blank, eyes faraway and cold. A disconnect case if Crane had ever seen one. Well he'd fix that.

They came to a small room and before the goons tossed Jack in Crane made them go through his pockets again. Fear toxin patients could be dangerous and he wanted no unpleasant surprises.

Satisfied Jack wasn't a threat he motioned for them to push him in the room.

"Let me see what you found in his pockets," he told the men. One of them produced three rather nondescript fold-out knives and a book.

Dr. Crane studied the book, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. "The Songs of Maldoror," he said to no one in particular. "I've heard of this book. Yes. Interesting."

He looked at the knives and smiled inwardly. The book had given him an idea.

----------------------------------------------------------

"Hello Jack."

Jack barely glanced at him. He hadn't said a word since he'd been brought there. He didn't seem afraid or even nervous. No, he was just _there_.

Crane popped his suitcase open. "Would you like to see my mask Jack? I use it in my experiments. It's a bit primitive but it works well. You'll see why."

Jack frowned, looked at him and then the briefcase. As Crane slipped his mask on he saw something like scorn in the other man's eyes. Defiant, mocking, _scorn_. And maybe even a kind of smirking pity.

Icy rage filled him and when he sprayed the man he used more than he meant to. It was unprofessional yes but that look Jack had given him. How _dare_ he, a common thief, and a bad one at that, look at _him _that way? He was a psychopharmacologist, a doctor with a genius level IQ!

"I bet you won't look at me that way again," Crane remarked as Jack went down in a screaming heap. He reached down and deftly removed the handcuffs.

"Listen to me Jack. You're going to be in so much pain tonight," he whispered. "I'll make sure of it. Why? Because I'm your God."

The effects of his words were devastating. Jack screamed and screamed, pulling himself into the corner. The sight of the mask horrified him and it made Crane feel giddy. With the mask on he always felt like a different man. Confident, assertive. Unafraid.

He looked over to the thugs standing outside the door, just out of reach of the toxin's spray.

"I've given him a particularly large dose. It should be quite interesting to see how much his mind can take before he breaks."

"Put on a good show," one of them laughed. "The camera's running."

They always videotaped the "sessions", both for Crane's research and for the mob guy's personal amusement.

"I plan on it," he smiled coldly behind the mask and turned to Jack.

"Now Jack," he whispered. "There's a way out of this. I can make it end. All you have to do is listen."

He merely screamed, sounding like a man who had seen Hell and realized he would be there for a very long time.

_'But there is no Hell, or Heaven," _Dr. Crane thought to himself. _'Only me.'_

"Give me one of the knives you found on him," he ordered the thugs and Vito handed him the largest one with a sadistic grin.

Crane unfolded the knife and examined it. Moment of truth. He stepped closer to the man on the floor and forced his voice into a soothing, persuasive range.

"Jack, listen to me. I know you're frightened. Don't be. If you'd only smile your fear would just go away. Like magic! I know it's hard but you can do it. If you do we'll let you go. You can make yourself smile, can't you Jack? Put a smile on your face."

He could barely contain his laughter at what he was saying. Jack gave no indication of hearing him but he knew he had. Now for the test.

He tossed the knife down beside Jack and left the tiny room, shutting the door behind him.

"Now we wait," he told the other men, pulling his mask off.

"He won't do it," one of them scoffed. "I don't care how strong that crap's supposed to be. No one is gonna give themselves a Glasgow on it."

"We'll see," Dr. Crane answered absently.

After a couple of minutes Jack reached for the knife. His fingers wrapped around it and pulled it close. He was saying something, raving like a madman, but Crane paid no attention. He could barely breathe from the anticipation.

And then it happened.

"Holy shit," Vito gasped. "Oh _shit._ He's doing it!"

Indeed he was. Jack slipped the knife through the flesh of his cheeks and began to saw. A bizarre keening noise emitted from his throat as he did so. After what seemed like an eternity he was done, moving to the other side of his face. Blood pooled on the filthy cement floor, steaming in the cold air.

"All thanks to his book," Crane laughed. "I'll bet he wishes he'd never laid eyes on it. That's where I got the idea. In the book the narrator cuts his mouth because he's unhappy and wants to smile."

"Christ," one of the guys moaned. "How can he do that to himself?"

"I know," Crane whispered, revulsion and triumph warring in his head. "Amazing isn't it?"

When Jack was done giving himself a smile he drew the knife over his bottom lip, obviously crazed with pain and fear. He was choking on his own blood, coughing weakly. The screams had stopped.

Now he knew his theory about susceptibility under his toxin was correct. He was ecstatic. Time to go home and work on his notes.

"I'm done with him," he told the men. "He's all yours now."

"I say we throw him in a ditch somewhere and let him bleed out. He ain't gonna live." Vito said to the other goons as they pulled Jack up and out of the room. "Then we can go get some beers."

"Fucker's bleeding everywhere," one of them snarled. "Gonna get blood on my clothes and shoes."

"Stop being such a pussy. Not like you wear anything nice. Just go back to the dollar store and buy more."

The men laughed.

"Well gentlemen it's been a pleasure. I'm leaving," Crane told them. His gaze snapped to Jack. He was a bloody mess, only half conscious.

"Jack, your face...it isn't too nice anymore. No hard feelings though, right?" Crane slid the book back into Jack's pocket and sauntered off down the hall. His new-found good mood soon overtook his normal reserve and he began to whistle a happy tune.


End file.
